


Scarecrow

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hallowe'en, Horror, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magical Realism, Mention of Molestation, Other, Romance, Spooky, Squelchy sounds, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:36:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if your best friend was the monster in the dark? What if he saved your life, but killed to do so? What if you still loved him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shadow of the Hawk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mattsloved1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattsloved1/gifts).



> Halloween approaches, the year is dying and the moon is full in the sky. Gather close my children and I shall tell you a story, a scary story, hopefully one that will make you check for the creatures under your bed that sweep their hands out in the dark of the night to grab at your ankles. Or makes you wonder what the creak and groan is upon the stairs. Huddle close to the fire. Draw a blanket up over your head. Shhhh. It’s just the sound in the tree branches scratching at the windowpane, not the ghost of the hanged man pacing in the attic.
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 once again for looking this over.
> 
> Don’t own, but if I did, you would have trouble sleeping:)
> 
> Now in Russian - thanks to MashafromRussia 
> 
> http://ficbook.net/readfic/2172246/5938441?show_comments=1#com26094520

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halloween approaches, the year is dying and the moon is full in the sky. Gather close my children and I shall tell you a story, a scary story, hopefully one that will make you check for the creatures under your bed that sweep their hands out in the dark of the night to grab at your ankles. Or makes you wonder what the creak and groan is upon the stairs. Huddle close to the fire. Draw a blanket up over your head. Shhhh. It’s just the sound in the tree branches scratching at the windowpane, not the ghost of the hanged man pacing in the attic.
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 once again for looking this over.
> 
> Don’t own, but if I did, you would have trouble sleeping:)

When John was little, he loved visiting his Grandparents’ farm in the autumn. Nothing was better, more thrilling, than to race through the tall stalks of corn, listen to the dry, desiccated leaves scratch and rub together as he walked past, his clothes brushing up against them. The heavy smell of dying plant life at the year’s end, the scuttle of mice as they tried to store enough fallen grain to make it through the winter and the first nose curling hints of frost; those were the things he loved the best.

 

But the scarecrow frightened him, just a little. He’d see it in the field, out back and he could imagine the sightless figure tracking him with its nonexistent eyes on old burlap, pale and silvery, bleached by the sun and faded by the rain. There was an old black, curly wig, found somewhere, perched whimsically on its head. The wind would dance with the tattered tails of an old shirt and the ragged ends of his Grandfather’s long black coat. It caused his hyperactive imagination to see it move and reach for him. He could hear, underneath the wind and the derisive laughter of the crows, a dark, weighted voice slowly saying his name. ‘Joooohhhnn’ like a sigh or the ghost of a murmur. He’d turn slowly, so as not to make the scarecrow think he was nervous and he’d walk back to his Grandparent’s farm house, quickly, but not as if he were afraid. He could well believe if it thought he was scared, it would rise off of the stake it was tied to and the last thing he would feel before he reached the safety of the door would be the long arms wrapping themselves around his small body and he’d be carried away into the depths of the corn, never to be seen again.

 

He told his Gran once about his fears, and she ran a hand through his hair, looked at him funny and said scarecrows were there for protection. Always had been, always would be. It was a family tradition. Nothing would harm him if he were under the scarecrow’s watchful gaze. Then she gave him a fresh baked biscuit and set him at the table with a glass of milk.

 

One fall, there was a new hired man, Reubens. Something about him curdled John’s appetite and left him feeling uneasy. At twelve, John, city boy that he was, knew not to trust a man who’s eyes followed but whose smile never reached the darkened shadows under the heavy brows. Once, alone in the barn, the hired man had held him with his eyes, pinned him in place and watched him with a satisfied smirk as John played with some newborn kittens. He left a sour taste in John’s mouth, and he made sure he was never by himself near the man if he could help it.

 

On a clear pumpkin frost evening, after running wild through the field, dirt clinging to the knees of his jeans, the sole of one trainer beginning to loosen and flap a bit as he jogged along, John stayed longer than he should have. The sky was indigo dark, and the air was a graveyard chill. He could see his breath and the stars glittered harder and brighter than diamonds. He had not worn a jacket when he went for his explorations and goosebumps were raised along his thin arms. He made his way back to the house when he heard the crackle of something being trod upon, a branch or a stalk broken.

 

He was not alone in the field.

 

First thoughts reached out to the scarecrow. It had finally come to life and was tracking him down. Second thoughts went to the new hire. The reality of the molten look of unnamed want in that man’s eyes outweighed any thought of imaginary monsters. Real monsters were scarier.

 

He had stopped, a timid creature under the shadow of the hawk, and listened with all of his might. He listened so hard he could hear nothing but the thrum of his blood pounding in his veins. He had just decided he had imagined it or something else had made that noise, and he turned to go, when Reubens strolled out, leaching from between the stalks a silent, deadly apparition, hands in his pocket.

 

“Hey John,” he smiled a fresh corpse smile at him. “What are you doing out here at this time of day? Shouldn’t you be up at the house? Your grandparents will be looking for you. It isn’t safe being out here at night. All manner of wild things could be creeping up through the field.” And his smile became broader and more shark-like at the idea.

 

John shivered but didn’t respond. He turned his back and made his way to the house. As with the scarecrow, he moved as if it didn’t matter as if he weren’t terrified, but he was oh so very much afraid. His heart was pounding so hard he knew Reubens could hear it shattering against his ribs. John had only managed to walk a few steps when a rough hand grabbed his arm and span him around.

 

“I’m talking to you! Don’t you know it’s not polite to treat someone like that? Come on John. I just want to be friends.” The grip on John’s arm tightened with bruising force, and the man brought him closer. John tried digging in his heels, but he was outweighed.

 

His mouth dropped open to yell and scream for help when a work-callused hand clamped down across and prevented him from calling out. The hand on his arm moved and was wrapped around the front of his t-shirt, and he was dragged forward and up into the air.

 

John kicked out at the older man and managed to connect with a kneecap and an unguarded stomach. There was curses and yelling. He bit down hard on the hand across his mouth and tasted blood. John was smacked hard across the face. The expression ‘seeing stars’ had always confused him until that moment. He could feel the slow, steady drip of blood running out of the corner of his mouth and the taste of his own mixed with that of Reubens. He was lugged over the shoulder of the farm worker, and they began to make their way to the heart of the field. John was feeling the effects of the abuse and being carried head down across a solid shoulder didn’t help. He felt dizzy and nauseated.

 

They walked longer than John thought was possible before they stopped. Dumped onto the ground, the dirt blew up from the impact, and he hit the back of his head on a stone left in the turnings of the soil. He was sure he had passed out for a moment because when he looked again, Reubens was in the process removing his sun-faded shirt. He had just put his hands on his belt, looking at John with an expression he had never seen before, but which spoke of dead things and unspeakable secrets. Just as Reubens managed to pull the end of the belt through the metal ring, John thought he heard a noise, another rustle and snap. He was feeling very sick to his stomach, and he wondered if he imagined things.

 

But Reubens looked too. After a moment he shrugged and continued what he had been doing, evil grin stretched, and John was sure his eyes gleamed red.

 

There was a sudden flurry of movement out of the corner of John’s eyes and an explosion of sound and corn stalks. A fierce growl and a manlike shape pounced upon Reubens. It was hard to see in the gloom. John’s vision was blurred from the pain in his head and the real and figurative dark that bound him, but he could see the figure wrap long arms around Reubens. The arms were strong, stronger than steel bands and soon Reubens couldn’t move. His face mirrored the look that had been on John’s moments earlier. He could just make out indistinct features on the figure and sightless eyes as Reubens was dragged screaming back through the corn. John’s heart felt like it was going to explode as he continued to hear muffled thuds and unnatural cries, the reverberations of something wet been torn apart and disturbing squelching noises.

 

And as quickly as it had begun all was still.

 

The corn rustled again, and a tall, thin man came back thought the stalks, arms and legs lanky and slender, but floppy as if filled with something lighter than blood and bone. He wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be shiny patches on the material of the clothing worn by the approaching figure.

 

John’s eyes widened. It wasn’t a man. All of his nameless terror came rushing up through him. He felt his head turn, and his eyes rolled up. He had been saved from whatever evil Reubens had planned only to be sacrificed to the scarecrow. He passed out just as it reached him.

 

As if no time had passed, he awoke from a troubled sleep. His eyes lit upon his Gran sitting by his side, a worried expression on her face.

 

“Oh, John dear, thank goodness,” she cried. She placed a cool hand on his forehead and kissed his brow. “We’ve been so worried.”

 

John never did hear all of the details of what happened that night. There were whispered conversations and murmurs that stopped abruptly if he walked into the room, but no explanation was given except that Reubens had tried to do…something. John, as he grew older, was pretty certain he knew what the something was. He had told his version of events just once, and looks were passed back and forth. John wondered at those looks. In his mind’s eye, they were more like the glances people give one another when a truth is revealed or a story long thought to be legend, ends up being true. And not necessarily in a comforting way. He was shushed, told he was still recovering and reminded he had hit his head awfully hard. Someone must have come and hauled Reubens off of him, but no one knew who and nothing was ever seen of the farm hand, no trace found.

 

On the last day of his visit, John gathered up the necessary courage to trek out to the scarecrow where it stood solitary and alone. At the base, he looked up into the weathered featureless face.

 

He blinked slow and solemn and said two simple words.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The wind chose that moment to make an appearance and a shudder passed through the frame of the scarecrow.

 

John titled his head, and he could have sworn there was a specter of a smile in the old burlap face.

 

He turned and left. That was the last year he spent on the farm. His Grandparents, old and tired, frightened at what could have happened, soon sold the property and moved into a small cottage in the nearby village.

 

At the time, John wondered what happened to the scarecrow.

 

But it wasn’t the last he saw of him.

 

Far from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> Commissioned piece from taikova


	2. The Rustle of Crow's Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the awesome response to what was originally a random thought as I read a lovely Scarecrow story to my class:D
> 
> Special, special thanks to my dear friends johnsarmylady and mattsloved1 for looking this over. And Ennui Enigma and JAL for providing some dark, fertile words that grow and blossom in my overactive imagination. Thank you my dears:)
> 
> Gather close my children, because this story haunts even the teller of the tale. Draw the curtains closed, hold your loved ones close. Let us begin.

For six years the Earth revolved around the sun and the seasons danced to ancient rhythms, winter melted into spring, spring rolled into summer and autumn would come around again. Every fall, John would insist on staying with his Grandparents for a week, even though they were no longer on the farm. He was happy there, despite the bad memories. They, unlike his parents, loved him without condition. There would come a point, walking by the fields of corn and hay, pumpkins, orange and fat, where the smells and sights of the fading of the year would trigger something in him, deep, scarred, but strangely longing as well. An atavistic tremor would twist through his small frame as he strolled past and he would have nightmares for a few nights running, nightmares of Reubens dragging him into the corn. It wouldn’t usually end well. Sometimes, even though he knew the scarecrow saved him, it would be the creature dragging him by the foot through the dirt, and he’d wake up with the sheets tangled around his leg, his voice hoarse from yelling. Then there would come other dreams, especially as he got older. A soft, profound voice would whisper in his ear as the bad dreams came on, calling his name and he would feel a rough hand and long fingers carded his hair. The voice would tell him it was okay; he was there to drive away the horrific images.

 

Sometimes he’d carry the nightmares back home with him, tucked up against his heart, back to the city, where the sights and smells would usually wash away menacing recollections.

 

One night, after a week of heavy nightmares and no sleep and a mother who usually ignored John’s distress, tired and listless from dealing with John’s alcoholic father, he awoke to the feeling of being held throughout the night, wrapped in coarse but comfortable material, the smell of soil and sun and the rustle of crow’s wings in his dreams. He stuttered awake, to find in his blankets, a long strand of hay. He felt his heart trip a little in his chest and picked up the piece with equal measures of wonder and trepidation. He dismissed it after a few blurry moments; convincing himself it was from the last walk he’d taken near where his Grandparents now lived, out by the fields, but never in them, never again. This piece must have somehow clung to his clothes. It was more believable and far safer than what he’d first thought, an impossibility that shook him to his core.

 

It didn’t matter that had been three weeks before. The brain, a marvel in complexity and flexibility can convince itself of anything.

 

As a growing teenager, life continued, the past only ever present in brushes against his subconscious and John was determined to enjoy it. His first serious kiss came and went with Tammy Harding. A little light fumbling with her bra and a serious petting session in her parents’ living room left him intrigued and horny for days.

 

He lost his virginity to Cammie Wilson. It was sweet and awkward, and there was momentary panic when they both thought the condom broke, but all turned out well.

 

His heart, however, was lost, or maybe misplaced is a better word, to her cousin Brad. Tall, skinny, brunette-gloomy, he had heavy eyes and stormy moods, but John found himself fantasizing about him. Brad took him for a drive one weekend out of the city, two young men on a camping trip and he realized that he could fall far for Brad. They kissed, soft and chaste at first, heat and passion followed in the wake, under the canvas, their sleeping bags zipped together, limbs twisted together. It was different, better, more complex than what he’d had with Cammie.

 

In the night, Brad got up and went outside to relieve himself. He came back traumatized and scared.

 

“What’s wrong?” John reached out to stroke Brad’s cold, clammy bare arm, but Brad thrust himself away violently and looked at him with horror-filled eyes. He wouldn’t say, just shook his head back and forth, his mouth working, but nothing emerged from it. He looked down at the ground, tears streamed down his face and refused to speak, desperation rolled off of his trembling body. John tried throughout the rest of the night, but there was nothing he could do to convince Brad to talk. They left early in the morning, dawn climbed over the horizon, a furious red. John was dropped off at his house, and he never saw him again.

 

That had hurt, with the dull, constant ache of what could have been thrumming in his veins; the confusion of what the hell had happened to Brad, why had he been so fucking scared.

 

But deep in the shadowy places of his soul, buried under a mantle of normalcy, he knew, and it terrified him. He knew because, after Brad had left the tent, John, in a sleepy post-coital haze, he had heard footsteps, the soft trample like the rush of wind through long, desiccated stalks. He had dismissed it, just as he had dismissed the dreams that followed in the aftermath. Visions of a tempest-tossed field and an angry figure, which stood and watched him, judgement, weighted and measured, limbs crossed, scowl on a burlap face that seemed to have more defined features. They were clearer even though the last he’d seen of the scarecrow face to face had been six years previous and memory should have muddied them.

 

Another year came and went, another year between now and the incident at the farm. It was winter, Christmas holidays, a scattering of snow on the ground and fairy lights strung up through the city. Dark and brooding thoughts were far from John’s mind. He was coming home late one night, enjoying the festive feeling and wondering about the next term at uni, knew he’d be joining the army after, a dream of his since discovering his beloved Grandfather had served in WW II

 

He crossed the road in a disreputable part of town, coming home from a pub where he’d met up with some old friends from school. He passed a darkened alleyway when two grubby looking toughs hailed him. Younger than John and far more enraged with the world, a reaction displayed in their slouched posture as they held up the wall of the building against which they leaned.

 

“Give us a fag then, mate,” one called out as John strolled past, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched up against the night.

 

“Sorry. Don’t smoke,” he called back over his shoulder as he moved away. John knew he should have just ignored them, but the warm, confident glow of alcohol swirled through him, making everything seem relaxed, more serene than it normally would.

 

He kept walking, only stopped by the hand that reached out and grabbed his shoulder. John shrugged it off automatically.

 

“Then hand over the money for them?” sneered the taller of the two.

 

John swore internally. He stood, head tilted to the side, back straight and looked at the two who would surely pound him as soon as he turned his back. He knew he had to end this here and now or they would follow him to a more secluded place and beat the crap out of him.

 

“No,” he said softly, projecting danger. “I don’t think so. Go home. Sleep it off.”

 

The first one pulled a knife and waved it under John’s nose. “Hand over your wallet and we’ll let you go.”

 

John eyed the two. He was tired and slightly drunk with the false confidence of drink and youth on his side. He’d been in a few fights and knew how to hold his own, but he was tired and just wanted to go home. He thought about some of the tricks his uncle had been teaching him, preparing him, he’d said, for when he went into the army.

 

He grabbed the elbow of the arm with the knife and pinched the nerve there shaking the arm until the other dropped the knife, but he wasn’t coordinated enough to prevent the same lad from head butting him, splitting his lip, the warm, salty taste filling his mouth. There was a flash of memory and the sound of crow’s wings and derisive laughter, this time the laughter came not from birds but the lad’s mate, as he waded into the fray and sucker punched John in the stomach. He doubled over and retched but in a small, aware part of his brain he was pleased to see what came out of his mouth landed on the shoes of the first assailant.

 

A deadly voice, hard and intimate in his ear, spoke without emotion, cold and deadly, “I’m going to cut your balls off for that,” and he grabbed John’s crotch. Adrenaline spiked through his system, and the feeling of disconnect grew stronger. The smell of dead leaves rather than the crisp air of winter filled his mind, and he felt the sweep of leaves brush his face. The shadow of a small boy entered into his body, and he whimpered in pain. The shock of the attack left his mind scurrying in an animalistic way. He tried to take a deep breath and centre himself, but the pain in his stomach prevented him. As he stayed crouched over a boot came up and connected to his ribs, and he fell to the ground. He managed to reach out, purely unintentional and totally instinctual and grab the nearest thing to him, which was the leg of the first attacker. It unbalanced the other, and he fell to his knees almost on top of John. In retaliation, a hand grabbed the hair on top of his head and jerked it back.

 

“Now we kill you, and we’ll still have your wallet.”

 

The pain radiating out from various points of his body confused John. He was sure he could hear screams in his head and it wasn’t until seconds later, which felt like hours, that he knew they came from the second mugger, not him.

 

He blinked up, new snow falling from the sky into his eyes. He could make out a familiar shape, arms wrapped around the thug and then the wet celery sound of a neck breaking. The mugger's lifeless body was tossed to the ground.

 

The first attacker’s eyes widened long enough to recognize his death as a deceptively fragile hand reaching out and crushing his throat. John lay there, fear once more pounding through his body.

 

The scarecrow stood there, head to the side as it stared at John.

 

John, even in the midst of the haze of pain, now knew for certain that the facial features of the scarecrow were more definite. The suggestion of eyes had been replaced with two startling sky blue, leaf green orbs and the sweep of distinctive eyebrows. The hint of a nose was more pronounced and pale pink full lips looked painted. The creature bent down and gathered John up, setting him on his feet as if he weighed nothing.

 

John listed a little as he tried to gain his balance the scarecrow wrapped long, strong arms around John’s waist and guided him to the kerb. There was the sound of sirens in the distance, no doubt in response to the screams that still echoed on the street.

 

John shook his head as he glanced at the still forms on the road.

 

“You can’t,” he muttered, lip swollen and sore.

 

The scarecrow shrugged and held out his arms as if asking ‘Why not?’

 

“Because you can’t just kill people. You don’t have that right.”

 

The creature looked at him did nothing but John got the distinct impression it thought he was stupid.

 

“You can’t just kill people who hurt me. Reubens was one thing. I was a kid, but so were they,” he swallowed, sorrow at the waste. Sorrow because he could have been one of them, living on the streets, kicked out of his house, without the love of his Grandparents. He turned to the scarecrow, his eyes filled with remorse. “They deserved to be tried and sentenced, not just tossed aside.” John stared at the creature, refusing to break eye contact. Staring down a monster that could easily break him.

 

The creature shuffled forward and placed a gloved hand on John’s chest.

 

Its mouth parted, dry and dusty, and a parched voice, low and rumbling, like the hollow echo left in the wake of a freight train, shivered through the air. “Mine” the first word John had heard outside of his imagination and fevered dreams. A part of him, stunned by the actions of the scarecrow, agitated by the way it spoke and its declaration, teetered toward hopeless denial at what was happening to him. An overwhelming dread began to seep into his heart, a malevolent black liqueur, preventing his ability to breath properly, even more so than the punch to his gut. Conversely a richer, darker, more intimate part, leaped at the word, cherished and nurtured it, grew it in that same fertile ground. As chilling as it was, it was as if something he had been longing for all of his life landed at his feet, a malignant offspring of the creature. He needed to grab it, hold it tight. He would never be able to describe what he was feeling, and no one would ever understand.

 

The scarecrow watched his face and seemed to understand because it nodded. It nodded in a very self-satisfied way before it turned and disappeared into the shadows. He could hear the shuffle of its feet, echoed and entwined in his thoughts, long after the police arrived.

 

It would be ten years before John saw it up close again.

 

But at night, in his dreams, it was always present, as it hovered, observed, protected. There was an air of expectancy and the sense it was waiting for something, but John didn’t know what it was.

  
 

 


	3. We Were Waiting, You and I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the unbelievable interest in this story.  
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for catching all of those things I routinely miss:D

A burden. That was what he carried, a secret, weighted burden. He couldn’t say for sure whether or not the guilt over three people’s deaths was the main influence for choosing to become a doctor before he entered the army, but it was there on the edges of his thoughts, and he was sure it was an influence if nothing else.

 

Ten years is a long time to stay away from something, and it is long enough to attempt to forget the things that shape you. He saw the scarecrow again one night, not long after he had finished school, but before he joined the army. He went home to tell his parents of his decision. He had kept the idea of the army from them, knowing his father would not be pleased.

 

He wasn’t. Drink now consumed the man and it would kill him, someday soon. His father saw John’s joining as defiance and despite the fact he was an adult and had graduated from medical school, he felt he stilled owned his children.

 

There was a terrible fight and words were flung into the air that could never be unsaid.

 

As his father struck him across the face, there was the sound of breaking glass, and the scarecrow was there in the space between one breath and the next.

 

Its long arms wrapped around his father’s chest and it began to squeeze.

 

“NO!” John shouted.

 

The creature paused and looked at him, but still held his father’s life in his hands.

 

“No,” John said more gently. “You can’t. You can’t kill every time I am hurt. Put him down.”

 

The scarecrow turned his head and looked at his father and then back at John.

 

“Put him down!” John said it more firmly, holding his hands out, trying to placate the monster.

The creature let go and backed away.

 

“Now go!” He said. “GO!” The creature looked at him with a sorrow John did not understand and turned and left.

 

His father was too drunk to understand what had happened and would not remember in the morning, but John would, even if it felt part bad dream, part overactive imagination.

 

The next day he went to his Grandparents. He knew he would find the scarecrow nearby.

 

It was the only thing blurring the day, the heaviness he carried, marking the time with an unnamable darkness. It was sad, as it was a glorious, breathtaking day, the kind that filled your lungs and cleared your head, a day of possibilities.

 

He was visiting the one place he felt he belonged, where he had discovered who he was, his Grandparents. They were still alive although getting frail and they lived in the same house they had bought after selling the farm. The visit this time was in spring, and the air was fresh with the promise of newborn life. Trees were in full bud, birds were singing in the early hours, and everything was green.

 

He honestly wanted to see his grandparents. They were the only ones who had loved him like he wanted to be loved. But he also felt the need to see if what had happened last night, ten years ago, sixteen years ago was real and not just a product of his ability to repress horrific memories. He had shoved the times he had met something outside of the realm of what is real deep down to where dreams and nightmares reside. Something thirsted in him to discover if it was true. Perhaps being in life and death situations for so long made him long for something magical.

 

Waking early was now so ingrained the fact dawn was just creeping over the edge of the horizon was normal. After the first cup of tea, he decided to walk down to the old farm. The something that called to him as he slept was closer to the surface of his thoughts and although deep down he knew what it was, a part of him still pretended it didn’t existent, pretended the scarecrow was in equal parts a product of a young child’s terror and a night of too much alcohol.

 

He walked down the lonely country lane, listening to the chatter of the birds as they worked their way up to a full song with the rising of the sun. It was a fair distance from the village but being young and fit it was pleasant to stretch his legs. The closer he got to the old farm, the more his heart rate increased with unnamed anticipation. He wasn’t sure if it was remembering the past or something else, something that hovered on the peripheral.

 

His Grandparents had said that most of the buildings were abandoned these days. No one lived there; the property was rented out to a big farming corporation. He felt sad seeing the lonely buildings, not lived in, not filled with laughter and warmth, smiles and love. The memories he had, the good ones of being on a farm, had built him, had made him who he was. The bad ones too, he supposed.

 

He stood there, living in the memories. As he travelled down his thoughts to the past, he saw movement down by the dilapidated barn. A thrill of wonder and apprehension flowed through him. Even though he knew, here was proof he hadn’t imagined it after all.

 

He wasn’t sure if he should make the first move; he wasn’t sure if he wanted too. He had only been alone with this strange being when it was either standing still, guarding a field full of crops against the depredations of crows or when it was feeling murderous and protecting him from the assaults of humans. But something tugged at him, and he needed to go, even if it ended in darkness and pain.

 

He walked toward the figure standing there, dryness in his mouth making it difficult to swallow. He had only seen this creature in the flesh, so to speak, a handful of times but the closer he got the more memories of dreams and nightmares resurfaced. Emotions and desires he couldn’t name were wrapped up in this meeting. He had a feeling that this was the beginning of something he had been travelling toward his whole life.

 

The scarecrow stood there, its eyes never leaving his face. The closer he got the more he saw it had changed once again, become realer, perhaps as his belief in it increased, perhaps as a nameless demand for it grew.

 

Its clothes were still the same, tattered and torn, faded, but its features were finer. The visible skin was smoother, but still had the look of old cotton, thin and discoloured. Its eyes were what drew John closer. It stood there with an equal measure of hunger and want, want for John, gleaming out of them and with an emotion that he would have bet any amount of money was love.

 

He came within arm’s reach, and the scarecrow shuffled closer. John’s heart skipped and thudded, and the dryness in his mouth became more pronounced. He knew he was afraid but he didn’t know if it was of the scarecrow or of facing his longings.

 

The scarecrow made the next move. It raised a hand, no longer gloved, long thin fingers reached out and carefully as if trying not to startle John, carefully touched his face.

 

A deep, resonant voice came from the lush mouth, gravelled as if seldom used, “John. You left. You went away.”

 

John swallowed. “I know. I had too.”

 

The scarecrow blinked at him. “I’m only here because of you. I’m only whole because of you.”

 

There was such sadness in its voice John didn’t know how to respond.

 

“Please stay.”

 

John blinked. “I can’t. I have work far away. I need to leave soon.”

 

More shuffling as it came closer and leaned into John’s space. “I will not be here the next time. I can’t stay either if you are not here. You were almost too late this time.”

 

“But you look more human every time I see you,” he said puzzled.

 

“That is what you want to see. I am not human. I am of the earth. You hold me here. I am because you wanted me.”

 

“But I’m afraid of you. I don’t understand.” John asked, shocked at the quiver in his voice. How could he care for a monster? One that killed so easily and had almost murdered his father.

 

“You wanted to live more than you wanted to die.”

 

It made it seem so reasonable. John wondered if he was even really having this conversation, if this was happening. Maybe he was lying somewhere, bleeding into the dirt of a far away land and this was what his mind gave him to hold instead of pain. The moment was fraught with uncertainty and mysticism, strange magic filled the air. How could he possibly believe any of this?

 

John looked down at his feet, tightness filled his chest. “I can’t stay. I have duties. I must go.” He knew in his heart that there was too much guilt and dismay at what this creature had done for him to stay even if he could. “I have to leave because of what you do. Do you understand? You can’t keep killing and hurting people because of me.”

 

“If you go, I will die, and I won’t be here. You hold me together.”

 

It paused and looked at him.

 

“If I don’t exist, you will die, and I won’t be there to save you.”

 

“I will die either way, but if I go,’ and his voice choked up. “If I go, you won’t exist, and you won’t hurt anyone.”

 

He was startled to see the eyes of the creature were filled with pain. He instinctively lifted his hand and touched its cheek. “Don’t be sad. We all die someday.”

 

The wind sprung up from nowhere, and the raggedy coat of the scarecrow swirled around them as if shielding them. It leaned closer to John and laid its head on top of his own. John’s arms came up and wrapped around its back. It didn’t feel as if it were made of straw. It felt solid and warm, and he could feel muscle and sinew move under his hands. He heard the thud of a heart as he placed an ear against its chest.

 

The creature turned its head and placed soft lips, softer than he thought possible against his own and John felt his mouth open, welcoming death if need be, so enamoured with the creature before him. He closed his eyes and gave in to everything he had thought or wanted. A warm tongue entered in and carefully, cautiously tasted him. He tasted back, not sure what he was expecting; dust, dirt, straw, but he tasted summer’s last memories, the promise of fall’s crispness, he tasted the sweetness of ripe apples, but mostly the sadness and longing of birds in flight searching for a winter home. There was wildness in the kiss as well, a wildness that matched the unnamed yearning in John’s soul.

 

He broke off the kiss and pushed the creature back carefully. “I…I have to go. I can’t stay. I am so sorry. If I had known, I would not have done this to you, but I can’t stay.”

 

And for the first and last time in his life he ran away from something, something bigger than himself, something he couldn’t keep or control or save. It almost broke his heart, but he didn’t look back.

 

Shortly after, he left his Grandparents and spent the remainder of his leave with friends in the city.

 

When he returned to his unit, people noticed he had changed, that he was different, more remote.

 

He kept to the army as a way of forcing the terrible truths away from himself. There isn’t time to think about magic and wonders and monsters and remorse when you are saving people or being shot at, sometimes at the same time.

 

He felt he had destroyed something precious and unique, and he didn’t know if the stained glass fragments of his heart would ever heal.

 

But the world doesn’t stop because you are mourning and life continues in spite of trying to hold it stationary. Ten more years had passed before he saw the creature for a final time.

 

He had believed he had honestly forgotten about it, but the day he was shot there it was, unbelievably in the desert of Afghanistan. Still wearing the tattered clothes. Still pale and perfect.

 

It came up to him, just as he imagined when he seen it on the farm the last time, he had wondered if it had been a figment of a pain induced dreams as he lay bleeding and here he was. It would be funny if it weren’t so tragic. He found himself chuckling quietly, in pain.

 

The creature came up to him and knelt by his side, lay down and wrapped long arms around him. “I have been looking for you.”

 

“I thought you’d be gone by now. I’m so sorry I wasn’t brave enough to stay with you,” he murmured, agony making his voice weak.

 

“You needed me too much. I am part of you, the darkness you fear, the shadow within. I am you your other half, created out of fear and horror but held here by love. Of course I will be with you at the end.”

 

“You’re not really here, are you?”

 

“No. This time, I am a figment, a wish. I turned to dust long ago.”

 

Tears filled John’s eyes, but he didn’t know if it was for himself or the creature. He saw blackness creeping on the edge of his vision. He heard a voice shout out “Watson”, but he wondered if it was too late.

 

John turned to the creature and said, “Don’t leave me. I’m not ready to die alone.”

 

“You won’t.”

 

He couldn’t feel anything except the creeping cold of death’s embrace. He turned his head to watch the scarecrow. As he watched, it began to fade as if were simply held together with cobwebs and sunlight and it disappeared.

 

“Don’t go,” he whispered, as he slipped over the edge of the abyss.

 

He didn’t remember anything else until he woke up in hospital.

 

The doctors came and told him it was a close call, which he almost hadn’t made it. He wasn’t sure why he was alive. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be. Everything felt grey and plain, and there was no joy or awe left in him.

 

He was sent back to London, his purpose gone and it wasn’t until he was walking through the park one day and bumped into an old friend that colours returned.

 

St. Bart’s was different than he remembered. It had been a long time since he’d been, back when he was more innocent. He followed Mike into the room. There was someone else there and at first he didn’t really think about the other person, didn’t take him in but when his eyes swept around, and he saw the pale, tall, gangly but graceful figure standing there, he felt his breath catch. He was at loss to explain his existence. Wonder and enchantment had returned to the world.

 

He wasn’t quite the same. He was taller and thinner. The hair was not as curly and was lighter in colour, shot with auburn. There was more green in his eyes and a level of shrewdness and intelligence looked at him and absorbed him in a way no one ever had, but the essence was there, the way his eyes tracked John’s stillness. It was almost as if someone had taken the idea of a magical creature and given it living, breathing skin instead of flesh made out of rain-soaked and sun faded cotton.

 

In the blink of an eye, John was back in an autumn field, the sound of the wind dancing with leaves. And then, just as fast, he was back in the here and now and before the man asked for a phone, before, there was the mention of a violin, before the comment about days of silences, before the amazing deductions and the lady in pink and the death of a lethal cabbie, before, before, before, John said two words, just under his breath, just on the edge of hearing, loud enough to intrigue, low enough for the meaning not to be entirely clear, similar to the whisper of crow’s feathers.

 

“Hello, Scarecrow.”


	4. The Impact Between Certainty and Imagination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it looks like there will be one more chapter after this one:)
> 
> Thanks once again for the response to this one. I am truly blown away!  
> Thanks mattloved1 for putting up with me asking her to look these little musings over!
> 
> Triggers for Reichenbach

“Who was he?”

 

The questioned seemed to come out of thin air. There had been silence in the flat, except for the occasional muted sound of traffic and the tapping noise of the keys on John’s laptop, as he wrote up their latest case.

 

“Hmm?” John asked pokey tongue stuck out as he typed. He had no idea of whom Sherlock may have been speaking. Random questions or indiscriminate phrases shouted out were part and parcel of living with the mad genius.

 

This question was more reflective; there was a note of the personal in the seeming casualness of it. There were layers, even John, distracted as he was, could perceive.

 

He looked up into the opalescent gleam of a pair of eyes that were busy scrutinising him, stripping him in a way he hadn’t since their first meeting.

 

“Who was who?” asked John just as casually, fingers still typing.

 

“The one you are reminded of when you watch me.”

 

A pebble thrown into a still pond could not have produced so much chaos as was in John’s heart.

 

Careful, oh so careful, he thought he had been. But there are no secrets hidden, no closely held confidences when one lived with a man who reads your soul by the way you wore a tie. Hard to hide watching Sherlock’s hands, his long fingers, their graceful eloquence spoke to him deeply, and he would remember fingers touching his face. His lush mouth caught his eye and he thought of it and wondered at the flavour and texture, wondered if there would be differences, even when the words spoken carried barbs. Sometimes when running through the streets of London he would not smell exhaust, the dirt and grime of darkened alleys and overflowing skips, but instead hints of dried and desiccated leaves, the turning of dirt heated by the sun and beginning to cool in the night air and overall layered the smell of the change of seasons.

 

John stopped typing and blinked. He did know whether to dissemble or be honest. He chose the middle ground.

 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

 

Fingers steepled, eyes tracked; John felt their movement across his skin, as Sherlock tried to read what was in his head.

 

“Unrequited. He loved you; you were afraid to love him. You were scared of him. Perhaps he was violent, maybe not to you but to others. You felt guilty. You ran away.” There was a pause and the eyes, the amazing, magnificent and thoughtless eyes widened slightly. “He died, and you are still carrying it. Or perhaps you are still carrying him.”

 

There was the sound of a heart being ripped in two inside an enclosed space, but only one person in the room could hear it. John closed his laptop and stood. He looked at the floor, too furious to speak, too many truths in what had been enunciated in a clear, public school voice to unwrap from where they lodged inside of him. He placed the laptop on the table and left the room. He did not say a word but the anger, the fury of what he felt, rolled through the air, almost visible and it would ignite an outburst that might permanently damage everything he held dear between them if he responded to it. Up to his room to escape the feelings, the pain. He slammed the door hoping to expel some of the hurt.

 

Breath deepened as he tried to centre his untamed thoughts, but the anger grew, anger at Sherlock, anger at himself.

 

He turned suddenly and punched the wall, his fist going through the plaster easily, pain blossomed in his hand. The fury drained away as if he had lanced a festering wound.

 

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, as he checked his hand, in the hopes that the label would make up for other things. No broken bones but bruises and lacerations riddled the knuckle, a gift from the broken wall.

 

He threw himself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Although the anger was gone, sadness and regret had taken up residence, and he was still in turmoil. He did feel guilty. He had had a magical creature, a creature created, somehow, brought to life, somehow. His personal protector and he had thrown it away, spurned it, killed it. Yes, it had been horrifyingly frightening and had killed people but it had loved him, unconditionally.

 

The ceiling held no clear answers as he wiped his eyes and desperately ignored the fact he was crying. He turned onto his side and hugged his pillow to himself, searching for solace that would not come.

 

The light to begin to leave the room and he thought he might have the energy and courage to go downstairs and ignore Sherlock’s disparaging looks. Just at the moment when he felt he was calm enough there came a tentative, questioning knock on the door.

 

He glanced at the door. Now, what was he suppose to do? Being confronted about what had happened was not something with which he wished to deal.

 

The knock came again, this time followed by a quiet, “John?”

 

“Come in, Sherlock.” Resignation painted his voice.

 

The door opened, and the detective stood there, not crossing the threshold as if there was an invisible barrier between where he stood and where John was. John supposed that was marginally true. He could feel the untold story churning in his gut and knew at some point he would have to tell Sherlock at least a half-truth of what he had experienced. The detective was a dog with a bone when it came to new information about his blogger.

 

Sherlock fidgeted at the door. John took pity and beckoned him inside. He sat up at the same time and noticed the look of relief cross the younger man’s features.

 

“I uh, I am, I am sorry, John,” Sherlock muttered, standing as if in trouble with a headmaster for some schoolboy prank. “I can’t always turn it off. And it came to me in a wave. It spilled out.”

 

John patted the bed beside him, and Sherlock almost skipped to his side and sat, his long gangly legs curled, reminding John of a character in a book he’d read as a child called a Marshwiggle, all legs and arms. His complexion in contrast to the Wiggle’s muddy one was pale and beautiful with a hint of rosiness no doubt due to embarrassment.

 

Sherlock reached over and sheepishly tugged on John’s sleeve. John smiled a watery, tired smile at his friend.

 

And he then tried to explain.

 

“What you said, Sherlock, was mostly true. What you don’t understand is how much it hurts me to think about…him. I owed him so much, and I abandoned him. I feel so much,” and he waved a vague hand in front of his chest. “I can’t tell you who or,” he paused and swallowed, “Or what he was.” Sherlock’s eyebrows rose at John’s phrasing. “You need to let it go.” He continued. “Do you understand me?”

 

Sherlock watched him, absorbed what John was saying through his skin, his eyes, all of his senses, consuming the words that weren’t spoken and swallowed the words he couldn’t say. John could almost see Sherlock filing away what he had been able told and learn from what had happened.

 

A brief nod and one last raking of his eyes, he stopped when he saw John’s bruises. He looked carefully at the damaged hand and took it up in his own. He gently rubbed his thumb across the back and looked at John with sorrow. Then, not taking his eyes off of him, he raised it to his mouth and placed a chaste kiss on the back. John’s stomach flipped, and his breath quickened.

 

As if nothing had happened, as if there had never been a problem, Sherlock stood and moved to leave. John supposed in his mind there never had been an issue; he’d dismissed it as inconsequential. The detective danced out the door, shouting back up the stairs. “Come, John. There’s been a murder.”

 

John rolled his eyes and followed after his loadstone. What else was there for him to do?

 

oOo

 

One morning, after another fight with Sherlock, this time about something far less personal, a bomb blew up the building across the road and began a turning point.

 

They chased a shade, a dark reflection of Sherlock, until events cumulated in a nighttime visit to a pool, the weight and dread of a rigged vest holding John captive.

 

There came an instant, just the barest moment while he stood there, laser light glow on his heart, mouth dry, all the unspoken certainties and thoughts whispered inside him, that John glanced at Sherlock and saw…something. A dark rage, a visible anger. John saw it glint in the other’s eyes, and he was reminded of an autumn night. He had wondered in his heart when he first met Sherlock if he was the living embodiment of the scarecrow and here were the first glimmerings of confirmation. Sherlock was uncompromisingly furious with Moriarty. He was scared and livid, and it filled his eyes. John could read the measure of emotion barely glimpsed. He was incised that someone had touched John, had put him in harm’s way. But it was gone just as quickly, and he wondered if it was the adrenaline speaking to him.

 

The night ended with the two of them walking out alive from the building. They made their way home, climbed the seventeen steps and stepped through, into the flat. John found himself shoved up against the wall before the click of the closing door was even heard.

 

A growl was ripped out of a pale throat. “Mine.”

 

And then Sherlock was kissing him, hard and desperately. And John let him. And he tasted summer’s last memories, the promise of fall’s crispness, the sweetness of ripe apples. He tasted the wonder of the longing of birds in flight searching for a winter home. He gasped in bewilderment and closed his eyes letting Sherlock explore and ravish his mouth as he shut down the part of his mind that questioned how this was possible.

 

Sherlock led him to his bedroom and slowly, methodically took John apart at the seams and carefully, lovingly put him back together again, stitched him and cleansed his soul until John felt he was new and whole again.

 

Breaths caught and arms securely wrapped around and holding the most precious thing he owned. A curly head lay on a scarred and damaged shoulder.

 

John asked one question, “How?” as he stroked smooth, lust warmed skin.

 

A beloved face looked up at him, eyes still wide, lips still parted. “Perhaps what you thought you imagined was not what was real. Perhaps it was an echo of possibilities. Maybe he was what you knew, inside, you’d find in me.”

 

He laid his head back on John’s shoulder. John tightened his arms around him and breathed in the warm, autumn scent of Sherlock’s hair and left it at that. Some truths are meant to be held deep inside.

Months passed; more cases, more things not spoken of in the quiet of his heart, things not bearable to mention. Nights spent not chasing down the criminal elements were spent enfolded in each other, as they explored, savoured, tested their boundaries and they found there were no limits to the way they felt.

 

Only one other time did John see what Sherlock was capable of when truly enraged. Questions of what was tangible and what was not danced out of range once more.

 

Captive and hurt, head wound bleeding freely as he swam in and out of consciousness; John had begun to give up hope of anyone finding him alive. It had been days he had been missing, and he knew there was little time left. His tormentors had spent a good deal of time carefully breaking him down. Pain was a constant companion.

 

There was a crashing noise of a door splintering. John woke briefly from the twilight in which he was living. He could only barely perceive a figure rampaging through the room and bodies thrown everywhere; screams cut short. Memories of a cold night intruded and overlapped until he wasn’t sure in his haze of pain where it started and ended. A sudden silence and a shape crouched in front of him; tender fingers touched his face and wiped at the blood.

 

“John?”

 

John looked up at Sherlock and smiled before he passed out. When he awoke in hospital, it was to hear soft arguments about how not one of the kidnappers had survived. They had all died of broken necks, and their bodies looked like they had been mangled and ripped.

 

Lestrade’s eyes were weary with worry and concerned, but nothing more was said. It was laid aside and forgotten.

 

Months more passed and then came the time when John’s repaired heart was shattered once again. Sherlock was caught in a tangled web of half-truths and full lies and forced to stand on a roof and jump.

 

John, heart-pained pieces of grief floating throughout his bloodstream, was forced to watch, as Sherlock fell to the pavement. He bargained with himself and whoever would listen and told them he could repair him, stitch him together and hold him in his arms until he breathed again. The whole time he made his way to Sherlock’s side the word ‘No’ was building in his mind. The distraction of it prevented him from hearing the sound of the cyclist until he was hit. Then there was only the ringing of denial in his ears.

 

Moving through a haze of confusion and fear, he reached Sherlock’s side, his fingers brushed at his coat, hands hand felt for a pulse before he was pulled away.

 

After, alone in the flat, shoes off, waiting to be cleaned of all too real blood, John realised he was holding something in his hand, something he had grabbed at and had not acknowledged until he was safely somewhere he could fall apart.

 

He stirred enough to slowly open his hand.

 

Something disturbed his broken heart, hope perhaps, wonder again, but there was too much agony wrapped around him to question the enormity of what it meant.

 

There, lying on his palm, a mix of golden brown and rusted red, lay a single piece of straw.


	5. The Treasure Box I Guard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here’s the last chapter – it turned out maybe more angsty and romantic than horror – but when a boy loves a scarecrow what’s a girl to do? Hope you aren’t disappointed:) I also meant to have this up sooner but the boys were not playing nice & there have been glitches in my life (aren’t there always?) so sorry for the delay and those of you who are waiting for Shadow, same thing. Soon.
> 
> A special thanks to Mattie. I am dedicating this entire story to her. It’s yours Mattie!! This is mattsloved1 – she is awesome and marvellous and has had a really tough week & in spite of a horrible day she took the time to edit this piece for me! Hugs!! Go make her day by reading some of her amazing fics. Go now!! 
> 
> & a Hello! to john, Lucy, MrsP, EE & jack!
> 
> Don’t own, but if I did - Oh Benny & Marty – the things we could do;)

Day to day existence was dull and pale, a constant, leaden ache which permeated his heart no matter how many layers he placed over it as he attempted to protect what was left. The crack of emotions that threatened to escape and engulf him grew steadily wider until all that he was tumbled into the abyss. Around him was the sharp, unrelenting smell of winter without the cold crispness and the blindingly bright sunny days and even as the seasons changed they did not alter inside him. It was icy and barren in the void. He stoically maintained a mask, one that he felt fooled everyone into believing he was fine, but which, in fact, fooled no one. He felt the steady trickle of his life’s blood seeping out through the crack and there was nothing to be done to stop the trail that he left behind everywhere he went. He felt if he said he was fine often enough then maybe he’d believe it as well.

 

 

Most days in this half-life existence were manageable. He would awake, climb out of bed, drink tea, perhaps eat a slice of plain toast. He’d dress and head for work where he would cope. And that is all he was doing, coping.

 

He would come home, eat an uninspired supper or at least pretend to and drift back to sleep, where he hoped he would dream of him again. Dream. Not the crushing nightmares, which picked him up and deposited him in the relentless cycle of pain and anguish.

 

Some days were not so good. Some days found him crouched naked in the shower, back against cold tiles, not sure how he had got there, tears mingling in with the water which at some point had stopped being even lukewarm. He’d find he was clutching his chest, or his hands were over his face, and a steady stream of no’s would be hoarsely whispered out of his mouth. The dreams linked to those days were of unforgiving images of being unable to stop the continuous fall of Sherlock, over and over again. Rewind, hit play, view again.

 

When it got really bad, when he felt his dark thoughts could not handle another day, he would crouch down and pull a wooden box out from under his bed. In it he kept sentiment, pieces of the past mostly. His medals, a trilobite fossil, a chestnut, a key to his first flat but all were ignored for the one thing it held inside that would ground him back to reality and at the same time cause his heart to beat normally again. In the box lay a symbol of hope, an artifact which made him question the possibility that Sherlock might still be alive. It also caused him to question his sanity.

 

There, amongst the silt of his life, lay a single piece of straw, brownish gold at one end, rusted brown at the other.

 

He would pull it out and hold it in his hand, stroke it, almost wish on it. And then carefully, reverently, he’d place it back, and he would be able to face it all over again. On those nights of shored up courage, he’d dream of a voice whispering to him, telling him it was all right and begging him not to despair.

 

On the first anniversary of Sherlock’s jump, friends came around to check on John, to make sure he was okay. Greg forced him to go to a pub.

 

“You realise that this may not be your best idea,” John commented, wearily. He could tell Greg was worried about him. He was aware that the D.I. could see past the bricks and mortar of the façade he’d had put up and recognized it for the fakery it was.

 

Greg stared at him for a long time before John could see the shift in his thoughts and the precise moment when he’d come to the decision to address the elephant in the room.

 

“John, you can’t live like this. You have to let him go.”

 

He could feel a sad smile tug his mouth into shape as he looked up and at Greg. He knew Greg saw a little of the despair that lay underneath. He knew the other man wouldn’t sleep well thinking about the look in John’s eyes, knew the best he could offer in the way of friendship and comfort was nowhere nearly good enough.

 

John rubbed a hand over his face and looked down at the glass in his other hand, the glass he’d taken a few token sips out of, knew if he ever started drinking in earnest he would never climb out of that particular hole.

 

“I can’t Greg,” was all he said.

 

The D.I. huffed at John in sorrow and exasperation.

 

“Look, I know, okay? I understand more than anyone else what he meant to you, but don’t do this. Don’t, I don’t know, don’t fade away. He wouldn’t want that.”

 

John was quiet for so long Greg wondered if that was going to be the end of it.

 

Then he looked at Greg, really looked at him for the first time in a year, as John, not as the pretend John he had been playing.

 

“I can’t let him go. I failed him twice. I wasn’t there for him twice because once I was afraid and once I was angry. I am keeping him in here, inside me until I die, because that’s all I have left of him. If I keep him there, maybe somehow he’s still alive. Do you understand?”

 

Greg looked back at the diminished army doctor and nodded once, wretchedly, and let it go.

 

John hoped that was the end of the matter because he didn’t want to try and explain how Sherlock might come back because there was a slim chance he was really a scarecrow and scarecrows could survive falls from the top of a four-story building, couldn’t they?

 

There came a day, a few months after, when Autumn had reached the best of her days. The sun slanted through the trees, which were gradually losing their leaves and that smell was back, the smell of this time of the year so rich and thick you could almost live off of it. The leaves in the park John was walking through made a satisfying sound under his feet and the way everything glowed gave him a feeling he didn’t recognize right away, it had been so long since they had shaken hands.

 

He paused in his walk.

 

Contentment. Peace maybe. Such unfamiliar companions. He closed his eyes and let the autumnal wind kiss his brow. He stood basking in the last warmth of the dying sun and just listened.

 

That feeling, the feeling one gets when something unexpected might be just around the corner. He revealed in it. He felt renewed and energized, and it welled up through his heart and leaked into his soul, both of which seemed starving for something. It was a patch at best, but it was the first step toward the possibility of healing.

 

He opened his eyes and nodded, just a fraction.

 

Autumn had always been a season of change for him. Here was a chance to live again. It was time. Time to pick himself up and continue. Greg had been right. He needed to for Sherlock.

 

Not every day was golden, but it was a turning point. And even the bad days, the horrible days, the days were he thought pulling the covers over his head and not getting out of bed gradually decreased.

 

In the time of year when winter lets go its fight and hands the reigns over to spring, John found himself asleep, deeper and better a night than he had in a year and a half. His dreams were slippery fragments, laced with images he couldn’t quite grasp. There was a moment when he felt a familiar weight on his head and the sensation of fingers in his hair, but it was gone. He awoke refreshed and with the impression he had just missed something. A noise like the soft click of a closing door caught his ear, and he raced through the flat and down the stairs. He skidded out on to the pavement and caught the flash of a long dark coat disappearing around the corner.

 

He stood there panting, wondering if he had seen what he thought he had seen. He shook his head and went back inside. The feeling of something lost and somehow returned persisted throughout the day.

 

After his shift at the hospital, he found himself walking home. He had taken the Underground for a fair distance but needed to get above ground again and breathe.

 

He walked down a narrow alleyway, a shortcut back to Baker Street, lost in his thoughts. Fortunately, his muscle memory and his subconscious were looking out for him. He found he was crouched down, making himself a small target, without even being aware he’d moved. A sound, not heard much since the army, had made him transfer to this position. He scanned the buildings above him, and as his eyes swept the heights, the gleam of a laser caught his eye. He shifted quickly and took off running out of the alleyway. He heard the clatter of a fire escape behind him, and he sprinted faster. Whoever it was had decided they were not going to make any effort to hide the fact they were after him. It suggested either great confidence in the person following or great stupidity. Possibly both. If John had been the sniper, he would have hidden in the shadows & taken another shot rather than show his hand. The other must be impatient as well, all flaws to work in John’s favour.

 

As John ran, he felt a surge of energy race through him. It was one of the things he’d been missing, one of the multitudes of possessions taken away from him with Sherlock’s death. He ran with the full knowledge that whoever was behind him might very well be faster and better than he was and with the idea that at some point he would turn and face them. He felt he’d rather meet them head on and embrace death than run from it. For that is what was behind him. His death. He could taste it the way a rabbit can taste the fox waiting at its doorway or the way a mouse tastes the displaced air from owl wings before it swoops. He had been running from his death for a long time, too many close calls. He was ready. He was ready to embrace it in the hope that he would see Sherlock again.

 

He stopped, abruptly midflight and turned to greet it. As he turned, he laughed, gleefully and full of life and bliss, more than he felt in a long time.

 

A man stood in the shadows, a man whose presence left the impression of darkness and something twisted and evil. Tall he was, as tall as Sherlock had been but broader of shoulder. A pale scar, which ran down one side of his face, flashed in the light from a streetlamp. A cruel grin settled comfortably on his lips, and his wintery eyes were harsh without a trace of pity or warmth.

 

John looked into the eyes and embraced what he saw there. This was his.

 

The man came closer and tilted his head. He appeared puzzled by John.

 

“You are not what I expected.” The sneer in his voice lay heavily, almost visible. “I had heard you had become broken and depressed. It would be a mercy to put you out of your misery.”

 

John felt the grin on his face widen and wondered a bit about his mental stability.

 

“Well, you see me now. Do I look broken to you?”

 

“No. I think this will be a much more satisfactory killing.”

 

He moved in and the fight began, a strange dance of two men each with their strengths and weaknesses. Both evenly matched because of them, balanced by them. The only difference was that at some point John knew he would give up and let the other take him. Grunts and hits and punches were the only sounds heard in the alleyway.

 

There was a pause whilst they gathered and regrouped. John ached from heavy blows and was marked in new ways, but his blood sang with the feeling of being alive, so close to his death.

 

“Aren’t you curious?” asked the dark man.

 

“Curious about why you are trying to kill me? No. Should I be?”

 

The other just smirked and moved in again.

 

Slowly, slowly John was worn down. Slowly, slowly he gave up ground until he found himself slumped against the wall and big, heavy hands wrapped around his neck. Sparks danced at the edge of his vision, and a beloved familiar voice was calling his name. He smiled, knowing he’d see the one he loved above all others, soon, as the dark closed over him and then nothing for what seemed a long time, but was, in fact, mere moments.

 

Perplexity filled his mind. He could still feel bruises forming and where the hell was the light they all talked about? Where was Sherlock? Sherlock who had scoffed at the idea of an afterlife? John knew it wouldn’t matter; they would overcome any obstacle even the absence of a heaven or a hell to be together at the end of all things. Sherlock should be here to greet him, with his cocky grin and his knowing, piercing gaze.

 

Eyes fluttered. Cracks of light seeped in as his brain tried to make sense of images of which he was catching glimpses. Finally, eyelids dragged open. He was greatly disappointed to wake, cold and alone lying on the damp ground. He groaned as he shifted, not happy with the tally of injuries he seemed to have gained and annoyed that he’d have to deal with them now instead of being mercifully dead. He checked his bruised throat as he glanced at the pavement. A shape lay facing him, the other man, his neck at an impossible angle, still and not breathing.

 

His throat felt battered and possibly damaged, and as the fog cleared from his brain and he pushed aside the discontent of being alive, a new thought came over him. He knew who had killed the other man.

 

“Sherlock,” he softly croaked. There was a noise beside him, and he turned slowly to face the man he had been waiting to see for so long. Sherlock was crouched down beside him, a look of concern on his face, his hand tentatively stretched out toward John, trying to touch him. There was the sense that he wasn’t allowed this simple indulgence; John could see it in those marvellous multicoloured eyes, the awareness that John wouldn’t forgive him. He could read it there as if it were in print upon his face.

 

“You really have to stop killing people for me,” John’s voice was raspy from the abuse. “We need to look into therapy for your murderous impulses.”

 

“You really need to stop trying to get killed, John.”

 

John drank in the sight of Sherlock, quenched a thirst that had been denied and ignored for too long, filled up his senses with the joy of him being there, whole and alive.

 

“Take my hand, John,” Sherlock calmly, matter of factly said, in that dark as chocolate and coffee and cigarette smoke voice.

 

John felt a strange and slightly manic grin shape itself to his face and took the proffered hand.

 

“This doesn’t mean I am ready to forgive you. I am assuming you played dead for a reason. You almost killed me yourself, Sherlock. You know that, right?” His voice was barely a whisper.

 

Sherlock raked his eyes over John, no doubt noting the other injuries he’d received. The familiar search was almost a physical thing. John could feel it glide across his skin, unwrapping him, exposing him, leaving him vulnerable in a most delicious and tantalizing way. “You need to shut up now and stop talking. I’m going to take you to the hospital and get you checked out.” He paused when John started shaking his head. He placed a gloved hand on the other’s face to still the motion “No, John. You are going to go, and you are going to get checked out and then I am going to take you home.” The word home hung between them like a lifeline. There was so much longing in Sherlock’s voice. There was so much longing in his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry John, but all of it, every bit of it, ever since I met you, my whole existence is tied to you. It always has, and it always will be.” He paused and the hand that had stilled John’s face, traced delicate fingers over his cheek and down to his chin, mindful of the bruises blooming there. “I would do anything, beyond anything to protect you. Without you there is no me, not anymore.”

 

John was weary. The adrenalin that had sustained him had left him and the shock of seeing Sherlock was heavy.

 

“Just take me home, Sherlock. Please? I know how bad it is. Just take me home. I can deal with all of this unreality better there.”

 

Sherlock looked to argue but just nodded and found a cab. He kept one hand on John, both to steady him and to show he was really and truly there.

 

The ride home was silent. John closed his eyes, not even the least bit afraid this was a dream, and he didn’t wonder if Sherlock would disappear. The weight. The weight he had felt that morning in his sleep was back in his hair as it softly caressed the blond and silver strands. John smiled and drifted to sleep. It wasn’t much of a nap as it wasn’t much farther to the flat. John had been fairly close to home when he had been attacked.

 

The rest of the evening was spent mending John, heart, soul and body and talking. Sherlock did all of it with some guidance. John sat and watched every movement and catalogued every facial twitch, every smile, every gesture and stored it in his heart, in a wooden box that held his sentiment. He was thrumming with a flood of emotion, anger, joy, fury and sorrow. Murder and wonder-filled him to the brink in equal measure. He was drained from his ordeal and exhausted from the flood of unrelenting emotions, but he couldn’t leave to go to bed. He stayed and listened as Sherlock explained everything to him.

 

Later after heart-wrenching hugs and soft, tentative kisses, later as the kisses melted into desperate storm surges, later as they wrapped around each other just holding and being held, rejoicing in the familiarity of touching and being touched, as their skin drank up the feeling of contact and closeness, later as John realized how much he had missed this simplicity as he ran his hands slowly and carefully over and across Sherlock’s back, counted prominent ribs, catalogued new scars, he asked the one question he had never dared ask in all this time, had never unlocked from the treasure box.

 

“Sherlock, are you the scarecrow?”

 

There was a long pause, and John could almost hear Sherlock thinking.

 

Finally he shifted onto his side and leaned over to kiss John once more, kissed him, profoundly and prolonged, with time-consuming attention, with all of his intensity and deliberations, with a wonder of the first kiss present in the impact of that kiss; a kiss that spoke of apples and summer’s dying and fall and the wildness of birds.

 

He stopped long enough to caress John’s face and looked into his eyes, eyes, which spoke of never letting go ever again. “Does it matter?”

 

“No,” John shrugged. “Not really.”

 

“I told you once before. There are the resonances of possibility in this; there are the nudges of truths and facts that link us together, you and me and him.” He kissed him again to seal what was between them. “All that matters, John, is that you are mine. I would go to the ends of the earth for you. I would jump off a building for you,” he paused. “I did.”

 

John reached around the back of Sherlock’s head, tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, pulled him down.

 

And kissed him back.

 

Afterwards John, as sleep finally claimed him, thought he heard but couldn’t be entirely sure, and only ever, truly remembered in his heart, tucked into the same box, thought he heard the soft whispers of Sherlock speaking into his ear.

 

“Scarecrows never really die, John. Only if you stop believing in them. You never did. Not really, not ever.”

 

And he followed the sound of that beloved voice down into dreams and imagined fields and autumn and crows and sun-warmed dirt and being held forever, warm, safe and secure and very much loved.

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
